


It's a Dog's Life

by manic_intent



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Imprinting, Intercrural Sex, Knotting, M/M, Pining, That AU where John is a shapeshifter who imprints on Harold, because sometimes I just feel like writing a fic that hits all my kinks, no real other reason for this sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months, no yellow cape, and one and a half thankfully harmless gun accidents after, Harold and Nathan had settled into a routine. The Machine would send them a number, and Harold would try his damnedest to resolve it through a computer. Usually, this endeavour would end in failure, because despite the advent of technology, the idiocy of certain members of humanity was so fundamental that not even computers could provide any sort of real solution. </p><p>This meant that Nathan often had to intervene. Sometimes they hired help: which had worked out with varying degrees of disaster. Sometimes they tipped off the police. Sometimes Nathan and Harold ventured out, bickering all the time, and the success rate of this latter tactic was usually at around 24%. It also usually served to further erode Harold’s already falling opinion of humanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Dog's Life

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this ficbunny came from but it clearly crawled out of the sewage of my brain, spawned in the output of the serious!thilbo!wip that I’ve been writing lately. Sorry. At first, it was so much a kink fulfilment thing that I wasn't even sure whether to post it, but oh hell, why not. 
> 
> Note: Even non-trivial gunshot injuries need immediate intensive medical attention, but people in PoI seem to have a natural resistance to gunshot injuries.

0.

“Whether you help me or not,” Nathan said fiercely, grabbing the revolver from the desk, “I’m going to work on the numbers!”

“Nathan-“ Harold began, about to lecture Nathan on _futility_ , on keeping to the Plan, of not engaging in ridiculous acts of pointless heroism, but then Nathan fumbled the gun, and it tumbled onto the concrete, skittering aside.

In the awkward silence that ensued, Harold tried to stay stern, he truly did, but the bubble of laughter welled up regardless, rueful, then helpless, when Nathan smiled sheepishly in response: then they were laughing again, friends, the tension ebbing, equilibrium regained.

“… So I’m not particularly good at this,” Nathan admitted.

“Well no,” Harold said dryly, “Even were we both ten years younger, we’re not superheroes, Nathan. No one suddenly decides to fight crime and then abruptly gets better at it.” 

“All right,” Nathan said, with a straight face, “I suppose I’m going to need a costume. I’m thinking a… yellow cape, and an orange mask, and a superhero name-“ He laughed at Harold’s grimace, and ambled over to pick up the gun, holding it gingerly.

“Oh, put that back down somewhere,” Harold grumbled. “Fine. I’ll _help_ you. If only to show you how all this is going to end in tears.”

I.

Six months, no yellow cape, and one and a half thankfully harmless gun accidents after, Harold and Nathan had settled into a routine. The Machine would send them a number, and Harold would try his damnedest to resolve it through a computer. Usually, this endeavour would end in failure, because despite the advent of technology, the idiocy of certain members of humanity was so fundamental that not even computers could provide any sort of real solution.

This meant that Nathan often had to intervene. Sometimes they hired help: which had worked out with varying degrees of disaster. Sometimes they tipped off the police. Sometimes Nathan and Harold ventured out, bickering all the time, and the success rate of this latter tactic was usually at around 24%. It also usually served to further erode Harold’s already falling opinion of humanity. 

Right now, they were sitting in what Nathan thought was an innocuous car and what _Harold_ thought of as a relic one engine failure away from being an oil bomb, surveying a large container truck as it pulled to a suspicious stop under a highway.

“Martin Winter,” Harold brought up their Number’s details on his laptop again. “Thirty years old, ex-army, employed in a minor administrative position in the Pentagon. This truck’s GPS marks it as coming up from Mexico. Winter received payment into a Cayman Island account over a month ago, but the lump sum seems consistent, a monthly affair… untraceable origin… fake registered address… I’m pretty sure,” Harold complained again, “That _this_ time, we’re rather out of our depth.” 

“We could call the police,” Nathan said doubtfully, “But it’ll take them twenty minutes to get here, even if they’re willing to. So far, Winter hasn’t done anything. Anything on the truck’s cargo yet?”

“Nothing. Sadly, the shipping company in Mexico that owns it is a shell company that keeps no online records.” What was humanity coming to, seriously? 

“Well,” Nathan continued, sinking down in his seat and scratching his jaw, “Maybe we should-“

“Shh!” Harold sat up sharply as Winter climbed out of the truck. Winter was a compact man with an alarmingly receding hairline, pale, nearly bloodless skin, and a high brow furrowed into a suspicious line. He was dressed in a courier’s uniform, a blue jacket over a rumpled gray shirt, and he was busy screwing a suppressor onto a revolver.

“Ahh, biscuits,” Nathan muttered, and in Harold’s opinion, a man who was too good-natured to even use _normal_ swear words was certainly entirely unsuited to skulking about in the dregs of society trying to save people from their own stupidity.

“Do we call the police _now_?”

“We still don’t know…” Nathan trailed off, with a blink. “What if he’s got illegal migrants in there? Or worse? Why else would he check on his cargo while armed?”

“ _Whatever it is,_ ” Harold hissed, “I really don’t think _we’re_ equipped to deal with it. What can we do, eh? We can’t shoot until we’re sure that he means someone harm, and besides, someone who uses a suppressor _probably_ is very well equipped to deal with a… a businessman and a software nerd!” 

“We can’t just _sit_ here,” Nathan retorted, fumbling with his seat belt, and batting at Harold when Harold tried to grab his wrist. They ended up tumbling out of the car, Nathan again pulling out his damned gun, but Winter had already opened the back of the cargo truck- 

Of all the things that Harold was expecting, he _hadn’t_ thought that he would see some sort of big… brown _hound_ leap out from within the truck, snarling, going for Winter’s throat. Winter got a shot in, but momentum carried the dog forward, and it tore out Winter’s throat. Growling, it worried at the body for a moment, jerking, then it took an unsteady step to the right and collapsed on the asphalt. 

Nathan rushed over anxiously, and despite his better judgment, Harold followed, expecting more killer dogs to launch out of the truck at any moment. The stench coming from the truck nearly staggered him: it stank overpoweringly of decay and rot and animal waste, and within it, unmoving, was another dog, a smaller one. 

“Good Lord,” Nathan breathed, disgusted. “What was happening here?” 

“Nathan wait-“ Harold protested, as Nathan climbed gingerly into the truck. 

“It’s dead, poor thing,” Nathan pronounced, after a moment, and climbed out again. “We can still save this one.”

“ _Save…_? Nathan, it killed a _man!_ ” 

“After God knows what Winter was doing to it!” Nathan gestured angrily at the truck. On the ground, the dog let out a soft, low growl of weak menace, as though sensing that they were talking about it. “Look, we could… I don’t know, drive it up to a vet, or-“

“And how are you going to explain the blood on its muzzle, eh? Or the gunshot wound?” Harold stared at the poor animal. It was painfully thin: its ribs pressing up against its honey brown hide, and… people _were_ disgusting creatures, he thought, angry all of a sudden. Look at what Winter had done to such a beautiful animal. 

“But-“

“Your son,” Harold said finally. “He’s a medical student, isn’t he? Maybe he can help.”

“He’s studying to be a _doctor_ , not a vet-“

“It’s too risky to go to a vet. I’ve _told_ you. The moment we register on _any_ sort of radar, we’re… finished, Nathan. Us, the Numbers, maybe even the Machine. Besides,” Harold added, when Nathan started to object again, “If it slips out that this dog killed a man, the vet’s just going to put it to sleep.” 

“… Fine,” Nathan said, resigned. “Drive the car up over here. I’ll make a call, then we can head over to Will’s.” 

The dog whimpered and whined when they had to lift it into the backseat of the car: it was filthy, and its fur was matted and greasy, but it seemed too exhausted to try and bite: the burst of energy it had taken for it to kill Winter was clearly all it had left. 

“Are we just going to leave that body there?” Nathan asked, as Harold drove them away. Will had woken up, groggy but curious, and had directed them to drive over to his university’s medical lab. Apparently they were going to compound the night’s illegal activities with breaking and entering. 

“Best that we do,” Harold said gruffly. “I still have no idea what Winter was up to, and I don’t intend to find out.”

II.

Will, thankfully, was sleepy enough that their badly constructed story about hearing a gunshot and then finding a maltreated dog used for target practice passed muster, and soon father and son were busy commiserating over how _terrible and cruel_ people could be, and so on. “I’m not a vet,” Will protested over and over again, even as he examined the wound. “And actually, unless the bullet’s pressing against an artery or something, we don’t actually take bullets out of bodies. The damage you’d do to someone… um… or the dog… would be way worse than if you leave it there.”

“Really?” Nathan asked, mystified, and Will started explaining happily about gunshot trauma even as Harold circled cautiously over to look at the dog. It stared back at him, with a surprisingly intelligent, if unfocused stare: Will had given it some morphine for the pain, cleaned the wound, and applied bandages and a compress. 

“I guess it’s best to take it to a real vet,” Will said dubiously, “If the dog was human, um, I would say, he’ll need blood and he’ll need a drip, and an x-ray, but… he’s kinda already stopped bleeding, and he doesn’t seem to be in any real distress. It’s weird.”

“Maybe people are more fragile,” Harold hazarded, uncertain. 

“Could be. I’m not sure, I’m um, only in first year. If anything gets worse you should take him to an emergency animal hospital. But right now I’m pretty sure it just needs a place to rest, a bath, and food. Poor thing. You’re going to keep it, right?” he asked anxiously. “I mean, it seems really cruel to give it to the pound, after what it’s been through.”

“Uh,” Harold tried not to stare at the dog’s bloodied muzzle. Thankfully, Will hadn’t asked about it. 

“Of course,” Nathan said genially, “Harold’s going to look after it.”

“I am?” Harold asked, horrified.

“That’s awesome, Uncle Harold!” Will gushed, and to his profound irritation, Harold found himself nodding, and agreeing to update Will on the dog’s progress, and to get the dog to a vet _immediately_ if there were any complications. 

“What do you mean I’m taking care of it?” Harold hissed, when they drove off, Will waving away behind them. 

“Harold,” Nathan shot him a guileless look, “I’m the one with the day job that actually needs me to show my face around, remember? While _you_ can afford to spend your time beavering away in a quiet room somewhere. You don’t even really have to leave your apartment. It’ll be perfect!” 

“Up until he tries to eat me!” 

“Don’t be so pessimistic,” Nathan moaned, showing an utter lack of concern about his best friend’s safety, in Harold’s opinion, and they ended up sneaking the dog into the Library, and ordering in all manner of random dog supplies, purchased after hurried research and with bribes to ensure that it got delivered immediately even given the ungodly hour. The dog slept through all the fuss, and through their awkward attempts to wash and dry it in the bathroom, and in the end they hauled it onto the newly delivered dog bed and let it sleep.

“I’m really not sure this is a good idea after all,” Harold said doubtfully. “I mean, when _people_ get shot by a gun, that’s, um, an emergency room situation, right? What if it dies? Or needs fluids or something? Can dogs go on IV drips?”

“Just watch it for now and see,” Nathan shrugged. “We’ve done what we can. If it gets worse, we’ll get it to a vet hospital, all right?” 

So saying, Nathan hurried off, no doubt to get changed for his day job, and Harold sighed, staring at the sleeping dog. “I really hope I’m not being cruel to animals here,” he said out aloud, but it kept sleeping, and awkwardly, Harold put out a dish of water and a dish of kibble, and went to sleep in the cot.

III.

Strangely enough, the Dog, as Harold began thinking of the creature, was perfectly well-behaved, and surprisingly resilient: it was awake, if not quite mobile, by the end of the first day, and could walk by the second, if at a sedate trot. Harold had been able to walk it in the nearby park, and someone had trained Dog to answer to all the basic dog commands that Harold could think of.

“It’s smarter than some people I know,” Harold took to telling Nathan when Nathan came by. “Look at this. Dog, I need an umbrella.” 

Dog yipped, got to its feet, and trotted over to the side room where Harold kept some effects, including a wardrobe with a change of clothes: it picked up the thin black umbrella leaning against the wardrobe door and padded over, even angling it such that the handle could be presented to Harold. 

“That’s… pretty impressive,” Nathan said, blinking. 

“Yesterday it even fetched me a fire extinguisher when my CPU caught fire… oh, don’t look at me like that,” Harold said irritably. “There was just a problem with a fan. This version of the Machine is pretty stable so far.”

“All right,” Nathan said dubiously. “Just… take the dog with you when you go on your walks. Just in case. Since you insist on not having bodyguards.”

“I can’t _keep_ it,” Harold protested. “A dog should live in a… a house with a garden, or something. We could find someone to adopt it-“

Dog whined, plopping its muzzle in Harold’s lap and staring up at Harold with huge, sad eyes, and Harold sighed, swatting ineffectively at Dog’s muzzle to get it off. “Oh, all right,” he ended up grumbling, scratching behind Dog’s ears. “Just for now. I guess we could take it along with us when we help the Numbers,” Harold added. 

“You should give it a name,” Nathan suggested. “It’s not right calling a dog ‘Dog’.” 

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Harold confessed. “I just haven’t found the right name yet.”

“Coming from someone who called a crowning achievement of code and technology ‘the Machine’, I suppose it’s not that surprising that you’re calling a dog ‘the Dog’.” 

“I refuse to be lectured by _someone_ who called his pet hamster ‘Mister Biscuit’,” Harold muttered.

“That was twenty years ago!” 

Thankfully, Dog _was_ very useful with the Numbers, especially when it fully recovered from its wound: a snarling dog was a surprisingly good deterrent, and as to people with guns, for the most part, Dog was incredibly fast, now that it had rested, healed and was fed. It _didn’t_ try to tear anyone else’s throats out, though, which finally reconciled Harold to Nathan’s theory about Winter: Winter had probably been running some sort of… illegal dogfighting ring, where they abused dogs into fighting each other. 

“Stands to reason,” Nathan said, as they drove away from another saved Number, her murderous husband led off by police. “Dog’s a Belgian Malinois, I think. They’re an expensive breed.” 

“Not usually a dogfighting breed.”

“Winter probably stole him from somewhere,” Nathan glanced into the back seat, where Dog lifted its muzzle and wagged its tail. “Poor guy. At least you got the bastard. Pity about your friend.”

Dog yipped, as though in agreement, and Harold sighed. “This shouldn’t be about _killing_ people.”

“Of course not, Harold. I’m just saying, maybe you shouldn’t hold Winter’s death against Dog as much as you do.”

“Well-behaved and smart as Dog is,” Harold reminded Nathan irritably, “He _did_ murder a full grown man. Who was armed with a gun.” 

Dog whined, even as Nathan said, “I thought we’ve been over this.”

“I can’t keep Dog with me forever, Nathan. You’ve seen what it can do, and besides, I don’t really have the time to give it the attention or exercise that it needs. And I can’t really give it to a family or something with any good conscience, knowing what it can do. Maybe we’ll have to hand it to the police, or the army. They’ll be able to use a dog like this. It’s already been more than a month, we’ve been putting this off too long.”

“You’ve hurt Dog’s feelings,” Nathan said reproachfully, as Dog whimpered. “I think it knows that you don’t want it around.”

“ _You_ take care of it then, if you like it so much,” Harold said resentfully. 

“Maybe Winter really did steal Dog from somewhere,” Nathan ignored the jibe. “Did we check the Lost Dog ads?” 

There was a bark from the back seat, loud enough that Harold flinched. “Ah… Good point. I’ll take a look.” 

Dog seemed obsequiously attentive all the way back to the Library, keeping at Harold’s heels, resting its muzzle on Harold’s knee when Harold sat down at his desk, staring up with a soulfully sad expression, but Harold sighed, and petted Dog on its head. 

“I’m sorry,” Harold told it softly. “But I can’t keep you.” Dog whined, as if to disagree. “It’s not right. But even if we can’t find your original owner, I’m sure you’ll be fine with the police. There’ll be other dogs like you around, and… it feels like you’ve _been_ trained by law enforcement, anyway.”

Dog stepped away, tail between its legs, shooting Harold another sad-eyed stare before curling up in the dog bed. Guiltily, Harold stared back at the computer screens, and started to search for lost dog ads. Better to get it over with sooner rather than later, before he got attached to a dog that he couldn’t keep.

IV.

Harold wasn’t sure what woke him up, but he unstuck his cheek blearily from the desk and frowned when he saw that there was a blanket draped over him. Nathan, perhaps? Pulling off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes for a moment before putting them back on, and heard a shuffling sound from the small kitchenette in the far corner of the Library.

“Nathan?” Harold yawned, getting to his feet and turning around - and froze, wide-eyed.

There was a _stranger_ in the kitchenette, similarly frozen in the middle of taking a carton of milk out from the small fridge. A _naked_ stranger. A _handsome_ naked stranger, at that, tall, lean and sleekly muscular, with movie-star good looks, short dark hair, freshly shaven: his skin still seemed pink from a new shave, his hair hacked short, and… and… two tall, pointed black dog’s ears flicked forward and back instead of human ears and there was a long honey-brown _tail_ over his rump and… 

“… What?” Harold managed faintly, and pinched himself. 

Not a dream. 

The man carefully put the milk back into the fridge and closed it, then he held up his hands. “Harold…” 

“ _Who are you and_ how do you know my name and _Dog_ … where _is_ Dog and-“

“Calm _down_ , Harold,” the man said earnestly, and turned, showing him his back, pointing at a gunshot scar that was still an ugly, healing pink. 

“… _What_. You’re…?” Harold had to rest his weight against the computer chair, utterly shocked. “How…?”

“Calm down, Harold. Please.” 

“I…” Harold blinked again. “You can… shapeshift?” 

The man’s form seemed to blur, in an uncomfortable twisting shape of what looked like rapidly growing fur, then the man was Dog, taking a step forward and wagging its tail. Harold stiffened up in alarm, and Dog stopped dead, with a low whine. 

“I… uh…” Harold pinched himself again, then he rubbed at his temples. “Uh. Nathan has uh, a spare suit of clothes around here. Feel free to, um.” 

Dog stared at him for a moment longer, then padded towards the cot. Five minutes later, Dog’s… man form… was wearing one of Nathan’s old collared white shirts and jeans with far more aplomb than Nathan had ever managed, looking sleek and even _more_ handsome and impossible, even if the jeans had to sit low on his hips to accommodate his tail. He sat down on the spare chair near Harold’s desk, hands still up in a placating gesture. 

“So, uh. Werewolves?” Harold hazarded, still wide-eyed.

“Not particularly. More like a posthuman project. Dogs make great soldiers. A soldier that can also be a dog…” the man shrugged. “There were a handful of us. Based out of Area 51.”

“And… and Winter?”

The man’s expression hardened. “Used to be my handler. Mine, and… Kara’s.”

“That’s the other…” the man nodded curtly, and Harold swallowed. “Um. I’m sorry about that.”

“Nothing you could do. She was dead an hour before he pulled up. Was probably hoping that _I_ was dead as well.” 

“What happened?”

“Kara and I had enough. We tried to get out.” The man shrugged. “Our handler didn’t take it very well.”

“This is all… very hard to take in,” Harold said faintly. 

“I know. And if you weren’t going to hand me in to the police,” an accusing, hurt note crept into the man’s tone, “I’ll just have stayed in my dog form. I was starting to enjoy it. For the first time. I know you’re afraid of me, Harold,” the man added hurriedly, when Harold sucked in a sharp breath. “But you and Nathan have nothing to fear from me. The two of you saved me, took care of me. I’m grateful. But I know that you can’t trust me and don’t want me around anymore, so I was just going to leave.” The man’s tufted ears drooped.

Harold swallowed hard, feeling guilty all of a sudden, then feeling irritated that he was feeling guilty. Dog wasn’t even a… a dog, and this situation was entirely impossible and ridiculous and… “All right,” he said, in as calm a tone as he could manage. “What’s your name?”

“I was called Reese. But if you were going to call me something else that’s up to you.” 

“Uh… ‘Reese’ is okay,” Harold said faintly. “Er… where were you going to go? Do you have somewhere you were going to go? I guess maybe I could drive you there or-“

“It doesn’t matter,” Reese said quietly. “Just… away from here. If you had given me to the police, the Company would have found out that I was still alive.” 

“So… you and this Company… you were in… bomb disposal?” Harold hazarded a guess. What else were dogs used for by black ops military outfits?

“Not particularly.”

“What then?”

Reese grimaced. “I don’t think that you’re going to like my answer.”

“… All right. I’m calling Nathan.”

“It’s better that he doesn’t know about this,” Reese disagreed. “Bad enough that you do. I don’t want you to get into trouble.” When Harold said nothing, Reese stood up, ears still drooping, tail tucked between his legs. “I’ll go.”

“Where?”

Reese looked briefly hunted. “I don’t know.”

“Like that? With your ears and… and tail?” 

“I’ll be in dog form. No one will look twice.”

“What will you eat? Have you ever had to fend for yourself before?”

“I’ll be fine,” Reese said, though his mouth quirked up in a tired smile, and impulse finally overrode logic. 

“Sit down, Reese.” Harold commanded, and Reese blinked, but sat back down on the chair. Tentatively, Harold walked over, trying not to think about how Reese was looking him over with a strange expression on his face: hungry, perhaps, disbelieving, even, and Harold stopped when he was within arm’s reach. He held up a hand. “May I…?”

“Anything you want,” Reese said, with an odd catch in his voice, and Harold awkwardly rubbed a finger along one of the ears. It felt just like Dog’s, the same stiff fur, and when Harold rubbed behind it, the way he would with Dog, Reese’s tail thumped lightly against the legs of the chair, and his breathing hitched. 

“This is real,” Harold murmured to himself, still disbelievingly. “Wow.” 

Reese’s ears flicked up hopefully, then to Harold’s shock, Reese abruptly grabbed his palm, and rubbed his cheek against it, begging with his eyes. “Let me stay. Please. You can forget about all this, too, think of it as a bad dream. I’ll stay in the dog form, you can call me whatever you want, or… or I can help you in this form too,” he added hurriedly, when Harold sucked in a tight breath, “I’m a great shot with any gun and I’m a trained field operative. I can be useful. Please.”

Like a rescue animal, Harold thought numbly, starved of kindness, reacting desperately to a perceived saviour. Harold hastily pulled his hand away, uncomfortable all of a sudden, and Reese dropped his eyes, his ears flattening back again, his elegant hands splaying nervously on his thighs, God, but Reese was so handsome that it was disorienting-

Reese sniffed the air, his chin lifting, for all the world like an alert guard dog. He slipped off the chair and onto his knees, reaching for Harold’s belt, and shock froze Harold to the spot for only a heartbeat until Reese hooked a finger into the buckle. 

“Wait, wait, _wait_ ,” Harold yelped. “Back up on the chair. _Sit_ there. Right,” Harold took in a long, deep breath. “You don’t have to feel obliged to stay. I have a few properties around New York, you can have one, and-“

“I’ll rather stay,” Reese interrupted anxiously. “The way you and Nathan approach your ‘Numbers’? The two of you will get hurt sooner or later.” 

“But you wanted to leave before,” Harold said, confused now. 

“Only if you weren’t going to let me stay. And I wouldn’t have…” Reese squirmed under Harold’s stare, “I wouldn’t have left entirely. Not immediately. I would have followed the two of you out on your next mission, at the least. Just in case.” 

“All right,” Harold said, giving in. “I’m going to talk to Nathan, but for now, you can stay.”

“For now?” Reese looked up almost shyly, as though afraid to hope, his ears tipping up. 

“You can’t stay here like this with the… the dog bed and the, God, the _food bowl_ and such, you’re going to at least have your own place and-“

“I don’t have to be in this form,” Reese said quickly, his hands going up to the collar of his shirt, and Harold caught Reese’s wrists quickly before the man started to strip off, or whatever he was about to do. 

“Nevermind. Just. Have breakfast, or whatever you were doing before I woke up, and I’ll, uh, I’m going to call Nathan.” 

Harold stumbled back over to the desk and into his chair, calling Nathan’s number and telling a sleepy-sounding Nathan to get over to the Library as soon as possible, and turned around just as Reese sat at his feet and leaned over, to press his chin over Harold’s knee. At Harold’s startled yelp, Reese jerked back, wide-eyed and looking hurt. 

“There’s a, uh, chair. Over there,” Harold waved at Nathan’s chair, further away, near the glass board where they usually pinned up Numbers. “Just. Sit there. Until Nathan gets here. Or you can rest if you like _not on the dog bed_ … Just. Sit. In the chair.” 

Nathan burst into the Library looking rumpled and half-asleep, just as Harold was determinedly staring at his computer screens and getting no work done on the Machine whatsoever. “What happened? Did we get a Number… Who’s th… _Good lord_ , are those ears and a _tail_?”

“Before I start explaining,” Harold said primly, “I’ll like to state for the record that this is _entirely_ your fault.”

V.

With a baseball hat and his tail tucked down his jeans, Reese looked perfectly human as they sat down in a diner close by. It was still early enough in the morning that they were the only ones about, and with Nathan also dressed casually and in a cap, Harold hoped that they wouldn’t get recognised.

Reese had looked thoughtfully around the diner when they had entered, as though tracking for exits, and that finally convinced Harold that this was no caffeine-laced dream. Reese _was_ military trained. A _posthuman_. Harold sat down first, and motioned for Reese to sit opposite him when Reese instantly tried to settle down beside him. Nathan glanced between them, clearly amused over something or other, and sat next to Harold. 

“I sort of feel bad for buying kibble and chew toys now,” Nathan confessed. “It wasn’t even the expensive stuff.”

Reese shrugged. “I appreciated the sentiment.” 

“Does it still hurt? Your shoulder?” 

“No. I heal very quickly.” Reese seemed amused. “Good thing I wasn’t a real dog. _That_ you should’ve taken to an animal hospital.”

Harold flushed a little, embarrassed. “Anyway. Like I mentioned before, I do have a few safehouses around New York. You can have one, and I don’t want you to feel obliged to help us with, uh, what we do, but-“

“Actually I think we’re really terrible at what we’re trying to do and could use the help,” Nathan said cheerfully.

“ _But_ if you would _like_ to help,” Harold grit out, elbowing Nathan in the ribs, “ _Without feeling obliged_ , I’ll give you a phone, and I’ll call you in whenever we get a Number.”

“I can’t stay in the Library?” Reese asked plaintively. 

“I can’t see why you’ll want to,” Harold said, puzzled, “I don’t even sleep there most of the time, save in emergencies.”

“Ah.” Reese relaxed. “All right.” 

“I’ll give you the keys to one then-“

“No need. I’ll stay wherever you’re staying.” 

Harold stiffened, even as Nathan choked on his coffee and started laughing and had to be prodded mercilessly until he shut up. Reese glanced between them, confused and unsettled. “No?” he finally asked, unhappily.

“I’m a _very private person_ … Nathan would you _stop_ laughing… so I would _rather not_ ,” Harold glared at Nathan, ineffective as it was.

“I don’t have to be in this form.”

“Even so. You’re not a pet, Reese. You’re human… er… human shaped… er… either way-”

“Give him a break, Harold,” Nathan said, though his eyes still crinkled at the corners. “He probably grew up in a government facility. Maybe this is the first time he’s been out and about without a handler. He needs the company.” 

“Maybe you could stay in _Nathan_ ’s apartment,” Harold suggested irritably. Reese instantly hunched in his seat. 

“Well, he obviously doesn’t want to,” Nathan said, humour bright in his eyes as he finished his coffee. “Clearly this is your problem after all. Call me again if you need me for a Number. I’m going to go in to work. Lots of glad-handing to do today.” 

Harold glared at Nathan, feeling betrayed, but Nathan smirked, waved at Reese, and slipped away, the bastard. About to send Reese away to one of the safehouses regardless, Harold was about to fish out his keys, but then his phone buzzed. The Machine had sent him a Number.

“All right,” Harold sighed. “Let’s see what you can do.”

VI.

Whatever Reese had been doing before, it had made him very, very good with the Numbers. Reese _was_ a frighteningly good shot, and more: his posthuman senses gave him obvious advantages in the field. Harold and Nathan’s absolutely terrible success rate with the Numbers ticked up to a perfect score, and they no longer had to bumble about into situations that they were absolutely unsuited for.

Outside of the Numbers, Reese continued to be a problem. Instead of staying quietly in the apartment that Harold had provided, Reese only visited it now and again to get changed, sleep or clean up: the rest of the time, although Harold couldn’t always spot him, Reese was usually following him about, in either form. It should have been upsetting but it wasn’t, not really, and after two months of this, Harold turned around in the middle of crossing a seemingly empty park and whistled. 

After a moment, Reese’s dog form trotted out from behind a copse of trees, bounding over to keep at heel, and Harold let out a deep sigh, even as Reese looked up innocently. 

“You,” Harold told Reese severely, “Are incorrigible. Come along then.” 

Reese’s ears pricked up, then he wagged his tail furiously as he followed Harold, bounding around him joyously: uncomfortable all over again, Harold said sharply, “ _Heel_ ,” and Reese came to heel, though the tail wagging went on, all the way until Harold was back in one of his safehouses. 

He ordered in Thai take out as Reese sniffed around the apartment and then sat at Harold’s feet, and Harold stared at Reese uneasily for a moment before going to curl up in his armchair to read a book. Usually, Arthur C Clarke would have had him absorbed from the get go, but today, he kept sneaking glances over at Reese, who had settled down to lie at his feet, openly content. 

The collar and tag looked mildly obscene, for all that it had been Reese who had bought it and put it on, saying something about how he didn’t want attention from the pound. Reese had taken to spending most of his time in the dog form unless there was a Number involved. Unable to concentrate, Harold stared blankly at the book, and when the buzzer rang, he was actually relieved. 

Stacking the takeout boxes on the coffee table, Harold looked awkwardly over at Reese. “Uh… the pad thai is yours, but I’m not sure if you want to eat in that form… I’ve got an old bathrobe that might, maybe fit you if you want to change?”

Reese hesitated, then he nodded, and Harold retreated into the bedroom to dig the old, faded blue flannel bathrobe out of his wardrobe. He hung it in the bathroom, and Reese trotted in, nudging the door closed, and after a moment, emerged still tying on the ratty old belt, his collar left carefully on the sink behind him. The robe _definitely_ didn’t fit him: too tight at the shoulders, too short at the sleeves and far too short above the knees, but Reese didn’t seem to notice, sitting down on the floor next to the coffee table, then edging up belatedly onto the sofa when Harold grimaced. 

Chopsticks seemed to confuse Reese, but he managed the noodles with a fork, though he watched Harold curiously as Harold used the bamboo sticks to pick at his dinner. Harold wasn’t that hungry, but Reese was: he ate quickly and then folded away the boxes, wiped his mouth, and started to pull his legs up onto the couch before another wary look from Harold stopped him.

“Just, ah, just out of curiosity,” Harold said, as evenly as he could, “Which… form do you prefer?”

Reese shrugged. “I’m comfortable in either.”

“It’s just that you seem to be in the dog one most of the time, unless we have a Number.”

“The human form has its advantages.” 

“But?”

“But it’s too tall and too big,” Reese said, with another shrug. “People are scared of me when I’m like this. _You_ are.”

“I’m not _scared_ of you,” Harold protested.

Reese seemed unimpressed. “You don’t like being around me when I’m human. It’s not so bad when I’m a dog. That’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“You risked so much to get free of wherever you were kept before,” Harold said carefully. “It seems strange that… well, now that you do have your freedom, that you’re not, ah, exercising it.” 

“We didn’t try to leave because we wanted to be free,” Reese said slowly. “We tried to leave because we noticed that the Company was starting to… dispose of the earlier posthuman versions. Like us. They were phasing in newer versions. We didn’t want to wait for that to happen.” 

“But still. The world’s a big one, and-“

“And I’ve seen far more of it than you have, Harold,” Reese noted gently. “I’ve been all over it on covert ops. What I _didn’t_ have before was someone I would be glad to call my master.”

“ _About that_ ,” Harold said, strangled, “This isn’t about… I never did… Reese, I’m not…” 

“I know,” Reese said wistfully. “You don’t want me. If I wasn’t useful because of the Numbers, you probably wouldn’t even talk to me.” 

Harold pinched at the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “How did that even… I’m a very _private_ person. The number of people I like to call ‘friend’ can be counted on one hand. I don’t… well,” he said helplessly, “Don’t take it personally when I want to keep any sort of human contact to a minimum. That’s why _Nathan_ runs IFT.” 

“I know,” Reese repeated, then, more hopefully, “Can I stay here tonight?” 

Harold risked a glance up, and regretted it. Reese was sitting bolt upright, tail thumping on the couch, ears pricked, and the far-too-small robe was falling open at his navel, baring far too much skin for Harold’s comfort. 

“Er… er… you can have the couch,” Harold said, breathless and hating himself a little for it. He distracted himself by cleaning up the Thai takeout, all the while conscious of the way Reese watched him, as though Harold, of all people, was the most fascinating object in the universe - and God but Harold was a weak man after all: it was flattering. 

There was nothing to it but to beat a quick retreat. “I’m going to rest,” Harold told Reese, as he edged past the couch.

Reese nodded slowly, then he sniffed, and flicked his ears back and forth. When he spoke, his voice had pitched down a gruff register, smoky and rough. “If I can help you with anything, Harold…” 

“I’m fine!” Harold had never moved so quickly from the living room into his bedroom before, and he closed the door hurriedly, leaning against it. He was already half hard, and irritated, Harold showered in cold water, aggressively if futilely attempted to read some Asimov, then went to bed, annoyed at himself for falling for Reese’s tactics. After all, right from the start, it had been obvious that Reese had been willing to go to _any_ lengths to be allowed to stay. Was this how Reese had been trained? 

God. Harold felt sick just thinking about it. Someone out there had created a generation of new humans and turned them into weapons… worse, even. He looked unhappily up at the small camera he had installed in the corner of his room, at the tiny little red light that blinked in it, and for a moment, he was tempted to ask the Machine to look into it. 

Thankfully, good sense prevailed, and Harold rolled onto his flank, pulling his blankets to his shoulders.

VII.

Annoyingly enough, following Harold home did not turn out to be a once-off affair, although Reese would not switch out of his dog form unless expressly told to. At the beginning, a little vindictively, Harold said nothing, but it turned out that Reese truly did have no preference for either form, and he still seemed convinced that Harold ‘liked’ the ‘dog form better’.

Grumpily, Harold took to seeding his safehouses with a few sets of clothes in Reese’s size, and that felt nominally better. Reese was so eager to please that it was disturbing: Harold would have thought that a life spent abused by people would have turned Reese out differently: made him cold, perhaps, suspicious and bitter. But then again, Reese was not entirely human: and it was entirely in many dogs’ natures to forgive. 

Although Harold’s prickly attitude towards strangers, particularly _highly weird_ strangers which could _shapeshift into dogs_ had thawed somewhat towards Reese, whenever they were in one of Harold’s safehouses and Reese was in human form, he would often try to… flirt, for want of a better word. Usually it was not in the least subtle.

“I really wish you would stop doing that,” Harold said irritably at last, when Reese all but purred a ‘good night’ to Harold with his eyes fixed south of Harold’s belt. 

Reese’s playfulness instantly disappeared, replaced by wariness. “Doing what?”

“I’m not about to throw you out on your ear any longer,” Harold said firmly, “Especially since you’ve been invaluable with the Numbers. So there’s no need for all this carrying on.” 

Reese only looked more and more anxious as Harold talked on, and at the end, he asked tensely, “What did I do that was wrong?”

“All that… flirting,” Harold waved a hand vaguely. “The innuendo, the… the really bad pickup lines, all of it. There’s no need for it. I’m not about to throw you out.”

“But,” Reese said, bewildered, “You’re responding to it. I can smell arousal and-“

“ _Hold on a moment_ ,” Harold said hastily, flushing a deep crimson. “Firstly. That’s an involuntary reaction. _Secondly_ , like I mentioned, you don’t need to try and do me any favours, or whatever it is. You’re already a great help with the Numbers.”

“Favours?” Reese repeated, sounding even more bewildered than ever.

“Offering… sex.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Reese blinked owlishly for a moment, then his ears flattened down, and he hunched his shoulders. “I thought… I just thought that I might have a chance. Since you smelled interested. I thought that I just had to be patient.”

“A chance?” Wait… 

“Sex,” Reese clarified unnecessarily, and tilted his head when Harold sputtered. “With you?”

“Reese!” 

“I think that you’re under the impression,” Reese said finally, “That you’re somehow coercing me into it. Harold, I broke out of a maximum security facility _and_ took care of my handler, all of it while half-starved and dying of thirst. I’m not exactly someone who can be coerced easily. I could’ve left anytime I wanted after the first day, if I’d wanted to.”

“But I was curious,” Reese added, when Harold blinked, “You would say one thing to Nathan, but when you were alone with me you would try to be kind. And for all your comments and your arguments with Nathan you _do_ care about the people you try to save.”

“I wanted to delete the irrelevant Numbers,” Harold said quietly. “Nathan was the one who convinced me to help.”

“But you try just as hard. More, sometimes. You’re also the smartest person I’ve ever met, and I’ve met plenty in the Company… You’re a great man, Harold, even if you don’t believe it. I was just hoping that I might have a chance. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“… All right,” Harold said faintly, “This is all a surprise.”

Reese’s mouth quirked up slightly, nervous as he still was. “A good surprise, I hope.” 

“I’m still thinking about that.” Harold, however, walked a little closer, then forced himself forward another step, reaching out to rub lightly behind Reese’s ears. Reese let out a soft, low gasp that seemed to run straight to Harold’s cock, and he tipped up his chin, hopeful all over again. It was tempting to give Reese what he clearly wanted, but what Harold did instead was say, a little unsteadily, “You have this remarkable way of destabilizing the most determined of my convictions.”

“In a good way?”

“Let me think about it.”

VIII.

“We’re superheroes,” Nathan declared, when yet another Number was saved, this time packed off out of the country on a new passport, of all things.

“We’re aiding and abetting minor criminals,” Harold disagreed sourly. 

“I think we should pick out code names.”

“ _Absolutely not_ ,” Harold grumbled, even as, over the earpiece, he heard Reese stifle a laugh. “Besides, if anything, _Reese_ is the superhero, we’re more… a pair of middle-aged sidekicks than anything.” 

Nathan scowled, sunk in the front passenger seat with Harold in the driver’s seat, their Bentley idling in the car park of the airport while Reese made his way back over from Departures, the Number safely out of reach of miscellaneous Albanian criminal gangs. “This was all _my_ idea to start with.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Billionaires by day,” Nathan said expansively, “And superheroes by… well, by necessity.”

“I’m pretty sure that you’re meant to be at a shareholders meeting.”

“Sometimes I think Harold’s trying to get rid of me,” Nathan tells Reese over the earpiece, in a stage whisper, and this time the laugh is louder. Despite himself, Harold grins, which is of course the moment when it all goes wrong. 

“Wait,” Reese murmurs, then, more urgently, “Harold, go, just _go_ , there’s something wrong!”

“What?” Harold asked, even as he hears someone shout, behind Reese, “You! In the suit! Hands up! On your knees!” 

“Go!” Reese hisses, and the earpiece goes dead. 

Harold grabs Nathan’s elbow reflexively as Nathan tries to climb out of the car. “You heard what he said.”

“We can’t just leave him there!”

“Reese is far better at getting out of these situations that we are at helping,” Harold insisted, hard as it turned out to be to say it, and Nathan stared at him for a long moment before nodding grimly.

“All right. Drive. I’ll make a call, maybe I can lean on some of our contacts-“ 

“No. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.” Harold tried not to give in to the impulse to floor the accelerator, to get back to the Library, to his computers. “Try it my way.” 

A week passed, in which both Harold’s way and Nathan’s way petered off to dead ends, and Harold found that he was actually miserable. Frightened, too. He had become far more fond of Reese than he had thought, even though they had both still been skirting around the whole matter of sex: the world without Reese felt like a painting with one element roughly scrubbed out, an incomplete world that nagged at every waking thought. 

Harold took to working his cover identities, just to take his mind off every hopeless lead that he was chasing, every fruitless hack into government security. Security cameras had shown Reese being taken away by airport security - then nothing. Nothing in the holding cells, and far too much traffic coming in and out of the airport to accurately pinpoint a lead. 

Reese was probably dead. Harold was grateful for Nathan’s sheer stubbornness in the face of reality, however: as long as Nathan kept trying, it seemed inevitable that _Harold_ would keep trying too, in a futile spiral that consumed every moment of free time that he had. Their success rate with the Numbers bottomed out again. 

And then- Harold dragged himself home one late afternoon after a botched attempt to save an embezzling employee from himself, and nearly backpedalled right out into the door when he saw Reese sitting at his desk, dressed in filthy jeans and a t-shirt that Harold didn’t recognise, wearing several days’ worth of stubble. Reese bolted up from his chair, sheer relief crumpling his face, but when he took a step forward, Harold blinked again, dumbly.

“Where have you _been_?”

“Hiding under the radar. Taking care of some things.”

“Let’s… get you cleaned up then,” Harold said helplessly, blurting out the first thing on his mind, and regretted it a moment later when Reese smiled and started stripping off his clothes. Harold tried not to stare as Reese walked right over to the bathroom: there were new, healing scars over Reese’s back. Another gunshot scar. A savage gash, dangerously low and near Reese’s spine. 

“What happened?” Harold asked unhappily.

“I took care of some things,” Reese said, deliberately evasive, then he hesitated at the doorway of the bathroom, his ears tipping up. “Do you… do you want to help?”

Ah hell. 

Harold ended up disposing of Reese’s ‘disguise’, and helping Reese wash up: Reese seemed content to do nothing but sit in the tub and watch Harold as he was soaped down, days upon days of grime washing away. Harold tried to keep his touch light, but Reese’s cock thickened anyway, long and proud and alarmingly red. It seemed futile to try and resist the inevitable, the way Reese’s breathing hitched into little whines whenever Harold’s hands even got close to his groin, and eventually, Harold just reached down to grasp him, soapy and wet, the angle so awkward and his shirt sleeves soaked at the elbows despite his efforts. At the first few tugs, however, Reese gasped and thrust up into Harold’s hand and spent himself in a thick rush, and Harold realized to his sheer astonishment that Reese’s cock was _swelling_ instead of softening and-

“A _knot_?” Harold breathed, curling his hand over the hard, bulbous mass. Reese whimpered and rolled his hips, lifting his tail briefly out of the soapy water, and Harold wasn’t sure whether he was horrified, or fascinated, or just… more turned on than he had ever been. 

As though sensing this, Reese leaned over to nuzzle at Harold’s throat, groaning, “Harold, _please_ ,” before whimpering again as Harold squeezed the… knot… experimentally. The sound was more dog-like than anything else, and it made _Harold_ start to pant, his own trousers going too tight as Reese thrust his hips into Harold’s grip, each gasp a shocked prayer of “ _Harold_ , Harold-“ until he spilled again in a sticky burst. 

Harold let go, reaching over to drain out the now-filthy bathwater, but Reese uncurled onto his haunches. “Can I return the favour?” he asked breathlessly.

“Ah…” Harold hadn’t thought about _that_ , actually, for all that he _was _aroused. “You don’t need to,” Harold said quietly.__

__“I _want_ to,” Reese disagreed, pleading with his eyes, and Harold swallowed hard, nervous and self-conscious all of a sudden, with Reese naked like this, gorgeous and shameless. _ _

__“Not here,” he managed to gasp, and Reese sighed, but let Harold drain out the bathwater and shower him down. Harold washed his hands and backed out of the bathroom right afterwards, and for a moment, was tempted to leave: leaving without a trace had always been his favourite way of dealing with anything that made him uncomfortable, and Reese, yet again, had effortlessly tilted Harold’s world off-balance._ _

__Reese padded out of the bathroom with a towel riding dangerously low on his hips, under his tail, and his smile faded when he saw Harold’s expression. Guiltily, Harold asked, “Are you hungry?” Reese shook his head slowly, and Harold added, trying not to sound nervous, “Maybe you should get some rest, then. And I really should call Nathan and tell him that you’re okay. He’s been worried about you too.”_ _

__“Can I…” Reese began, then asked quickly, “Can I sleep on your bed? With you?” When Harold blinked rapidly, Reese added, “Even the other form will be fine, I don’t care.”_ _

__It was the plaintive look that got to Harold. “Only if you put some clothes on.”_ _

__The grin crept back, even as Reese ducked into the spare room to rummage through the wardrobe of clothes that Harold kept there for him: in the tense silence that reigned when Harold was alone, Harold took in a long, unsteady breath, and called Nathan. He spent half an hour talking Nathan out of visiting, and was tired by the time he went to bed. Finding Reese sitting on the edge of the bed was disorienting for a moment before Harold _remembered_ , then he spun a little awkwardly on his heel before going to get washed and changed. _ _

__Reese was still watching him with the same, warm intensity when Harold slunk out of the bathroom and climbed up onto the opposite side of the bed, but he didn’t move, up until Harold gave in to inevitability and beckoned. Grinning, Reese clambered over, and gasped yet when Harold curled his fingers through his hair, pulling him over for a kiss: near chaste as it was, with his mouth pressed closed against yielding warmth, it was perfect - with Reese’s hands curling over Harold’s hips, with Reese’s heartbeat hammering against Harold’s chest, marking time._ _

____

IX.

Nathan, in usual Nathan fashion, burst into the apartment blithely during an ungodly hour in the morning, clearly having broadly misinterpreted Harold’s suggestion to ‘come by first thing tomorrow’, and, again in usual Nathan fashion, ambled right through to Harold’s bedroom without knocking.

“You’re really all right!” Nathan said enthusiastically, when Harold groaned and rolled over in bed and Reese sat up, eyes narrowing for a moment before he relaxed.

“Good morning, Nathan,” Reese said dryly.

“If you’re in bed with Harold,” Nathan added, sounding confused, “Why are you both wearing clothes?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Harold pulled a pillow over his head. “Why are we friends?”

“Let’s talk outside,” Reese suggested, from the sounds of it herding Nathan out of the bedroom. 

It only took Reese about fifteen minutes to talk Nathan out of the apartment, apparently, though he looked rueful when he climbed back into bed and tucked his head under Harold’s pillow to kiss him on the shoulder, then on his cheek, then on the edge of Harold’s mouth, until Harold rolled onto his back to kiss Reese back. This level of intimacy still felt impossible, insane, almost, the way Reese groaned deep in his throat with his hands restless on Harold’s shoulders, the reverent way he whispered Harold’s name. 

This time, when Reese kissed his way down, unbuttoning Harold’s pyjamas as he went, Harold didn’t try to push him away, staring hard at the ceiling and trying to control his breathing, even when thumbs carefully tugged down the hem of his pants and boxers, Reese pressing a kiss to the tip of his cock, then a slow and hungry lick, from root back to tip and down again. When he sucked Harold into his mouth it was with the same deliberate air, inch by inch until Harold’s cock hit the back of Reese’s throat, Christ, but the heat and tightness of it was so _good_. 

Harold’s restless fingers curled through Reese’s hair, then behind his ears, scratching at the root as Reese moaned and started to suck, so fiercely that Harold had to fight not to buck; his control slipped, once, choking Reese, but his apology died half-said on his tongue when Reese merely whimpered, muffled and shocked and desperate, and rubbed himself against the bed. 

“Don’t do that,” Harold said, his voice hoarse and husky, and Reese instantly shifted back up on his knees, without breaking rhythm, until Harold felt close to the edge, growing tense, sweating against the sheets and unable to help voicing his own groans. He didn’t know where he found the will to do it, but at Harold’s first, gasped, “Enough,” Reese pulled away, with a wet pop, nuzzling Harold’s thigh with a plaintive mewl.

“Hands and knees,” Harold whispered, and Reese obeyed, watching Harold again with that devoted, warm intensity as Harold pushed himself up. Reese had gotten him wet enough: he pushed Reese’s knees together on the bed and pressed his slicked cock between Reese’s thighs, groaning at the friction, the warmth, the feel of Reese’s heavy balls against the slide of his flesh, pushing aside Reese’s tail when it tried to flick up. 

“Harold,” Reese gasped, then groaned, “ _Harold _,” again when Harold started to thrust, all jerky, sharp snaps of his hips, already too close, strung too tight: he spat on his hand and grasped Reese’s swollen cock, fisting it roughly in time to his thrusts, groaning, low and strangled, when Reese whimpered and pushed his hips helplessly into Harold’s grasp, his knot again firming up under Harold’s hand.__

__Harold rubbed a thumb hard against the swelling base of it, nail scratching lightly over the stretching skin, and Reese let out a wail as he came, shaking to pieces, back arching - before Harold could do anything, slow down, or pull away, Reese was pushing him back onto the bed, twisting around to take Harold into his mouth again, this time sucking desperately, as though afraid Harold would push him away, eyes shut, throat clenching tightly, and again, then drinking Harold down with a greedy, stifled moan when it was Harold’s turn to let out a cry._ _

____

X.

“You could be called The Finch,” Nathan decided, as they studied Reese’s careful progress through the warehouse circuit’s security cameras.

Harold rolled his eyes. “Ridiculous.”

“You drain the joy out of everything, Harold,” Nathan accused him mournfully. “Reese, on your six.”

“A ‘behind you’ would suffice,” Reese said dryly, even as he efficiently shot yet another drug smuggler in the kneecaps.

“Have you been reading up on military jargon again?” Harold demanded.

“Just trying to play to the mood,” Nathan protested, hurt. “Seriously, you two. We’re Team Machine, doing an artificial intelligence’s will. We operate out of a super secret base-“

“-library-“ Harold murmured.

“-in New York. One of the team is a _shapeshifter_ ex-spy, the other’s a genius with code, and-“

“-one is a middle-aged businessman with delusions of grandeur-“

“-the last is an _intrepid_ ah, philanthropist,” Nathan glowered briefly at Harold. “There’s a great story in all this.”

“‘Team Machine’ is a ridiculous name for a team.” Harold muttered. 

“I like it,” Reese said, even as on the camera screens, he checked around a corner. “Sounds fitting.”

“See? Two against one. We just need more minions and we’re set,” Nathan said blandly. “I’m thinking, maybe some disillusioned police officers, as a start, or maybe we could help more people from wherever Reese was from, or… or we could get an intern.”

“To fetch coffee and printouts?” Harold’s tone dripped sarcasm. 

“Well, sencha, in your case,” Nathan smirked. “Aren’t you glad that you decided to see things my way on this business?”

“Up until we all inevitably wind up dead?” Harold smiled, however, despite himself. 

Nathan shook his head wearily. “You have to learn to enjoy the little things, Harold. Reese, um… nine o’ clock.”

“Please stop,” Reese instructed plaintively, even as he turned to his left, and this time, Harold had to bite down on a laugh. Of all the permutations Harold had thought of when he had first begun to help Nathan with the Numbers, this had not been one of them - life, it seemed, still had an endless capacity to humble him.

“Careful,” Harold said, folding away his smile, the burst of warmth that he felt, growing businesslike again as he studied the screens again. “Head to your left. There’s an emergency stairwell that’s still clear-“

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent


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